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SONGS   FROM 
VAGABONDIA 


BLISS  CARMAN 
RICHARI>  HOVEY 


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CARE    THAT 

BRIEF. 

AT  ART  IS  LONG. 

THE  SILENCES 

IS  IN  THE  SONG. 


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SONGS  FROM  VAGABONDIA. 


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By  Bliss  Carman 

A  Winter  Holiday 

$o.7S 

By  the  Aurelian  Wall 

1.25 

Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pr^  and  Ballads 

of  Lost  Haven 

Net  1.50 

By  Bliss  Carman  and              | 

Richard  Hovey 

Songs  from  Vagabondia. 

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More  Songs  from  Vagabondia. 

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Boston 

Small,  Maynard  &  Company  : 

SONGS 

FROM 


BLISS  CARMAN 
RICHARD    HOVEY 

DESIGNS    BY 

TOM   B  METEYARD 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD    AND    COMPANY 

M  CM  XI 


Copyright,  1894, 
By  Bliss  Carman  and  Richard  Hovey. 


First  edition  (750  copies)  September,  1894 
Second  edition  (750  copies)  January,  1895 
Third  edition  (750  copies)  November,  1895 
Fourth  edition  (750  copies)  March,  1897 
Fifth  edition  (750  copies)  January,  1901 
Sixth  edition  (750  copies)  March,  1902 
Seventh  edition  (750  copies)  November,  1903 
Eighth  edition  (750  copies)  November,  1905 
Ninth  edition  (750  copies)  February,  1907 
Tenth  edition  (750  copies)  June,  1909 
Eleventh  edition  (1000  copies)  March,  191 1 


To  H.  F.  H.^/or  debts  of  love  unpaid^ 

Her  boys  inscribe  this  book  that  they  have  made. 


CONTENTS 

VAGABONDIA 

A    WAIF 

THE   JOYS    OF    THE    ROAD 

EVENING   ON   THE   POTOMAC 

SPRING   SONG 

THE   FAUN 

A   rover's   SONG 

DOWN   THE   SONGO 

THE    WANDER-LOVERS 

DISCOVERY 

A   MORE   ANCIENT   MARINER 

A   SONG   BY   THE   SHORE 

A    HILL   SONG 

AT    SEA 

ISABEL 

CONTEMPORARIES 

THE    TWO   BOBBIES 

A   TOAST 

THE    KAVANAGH 

A   CAPTAIN    OF   THE   PRESS-GANG 

THE    BUCCANEERS 

THE   WAR-SONG    OF   GAMELBAR 

THE   OUTLAW 

THE   king's   SONG 

LAURANA'S    SONG 

LAUNA   DEE 

THE   MENDICANTS 

THE   MARCHING    MORROWS 

IN   THE    WORKSHOP 

THE   MOTE 

IN   THE    HOUSE    OF   IDIEDAILY 

RESIGNATION 

COMRADES 

vii 


R. 

H. 

I 

B. 

c. 

5 

B. 

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R. 

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9 

B. 

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lO 

R. 

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H 

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17 

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Zl 

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54 

o 


VAGABOND  I  A.  / 

FF  with  the  fetters 
That  chafe  and  restrain ! 

Off  with  the  chain  ! 

Here  Art  and  Letters, 

Music  and  wine, 

And  Myrtle  and  Wanda, 

The  winsome  witches, 

Blithely  combine. 

Here  are  true  riches, 

Here  is  Golconda, 

Here  are  the  Indies, 

Here  we  are  free  — 

Free  as  the  wind  is. 

Free  as  the  sea. 

Free! 


Houp-la ! 

What  have  we    _ 
To  do  with  the  way 
Of  theJPharisee? 
We  go'or  we  stay 
At  our  own  sweet  will ; 
We  think  as  we  say, 
And  we  say  or  keep  still 
At  our  own  sweet  will, 
At  our  own  sweet  will. 


Here  we  are  free 
To  be  good  or  bad. 
Sane  or  mad, 
Merry  or  grim 
As  the  mood  may  be, 


Vagabon-  Free  as  the  whim 
*^^*         Of  a  spook  on  a  spree,  — 
Free  to  be  oddities, 
Not  mere  commodities, 
Stupid  and  salable. 
Wholly  available, 
Ranged  upon  shelves ; 
Each  with  his  puny  form 
In  the  same  uniform. 
Cramped  and  disabled; 
We  are  not  labelled, 
We  are  ourselves. 


Here  is  the  real, 

Here  the  ideal ; 

Laughable  hardship 

Met  and  forgot, 

Glory  of  bardship  — 

World's  bloom  and  world's  blotj 

The  shock  and  the  jostle, 

The  mock  and  the  push. 

But  hearts  like  the  throstle 

A-joy  in  the  bush ; 

Wits  that  would  merrily 

Laugh  away  wrong, 

Throats  that  would  verily 

Melt  Hell  in  Song. 

What  though  the  dimes  be 
Elusive  as  rhymes  be, 
And  Bessie,  with  finger 
Uplifted,  is  warning 
That  breakfast  next  morning 
(A  subject  she's  scorning) 
Is  mighty  uncertain ! 

2 


What  care  we  ?    Linger  Vagabond 

A  moment  to  kiss  —  ^^* 

No  time 's  amiss 

To  a  vagabond's  ardor  — 

Then  finish  the  larder 

And  pull  down  the  curtain. 

Unless  ere  the  kiss  come, 
Black  Richard  or  Bliss  come, 
Or  Tom  with  a  flagon, 
Or  Karl  with  a  jag  on  — 
Then  up  and  after 
The  joy  of  the  night 
With  the  hounds  of  laughter 
To  follow  the  flight 
Of  the  fox-foot  hours 
That  double  and  run 
Through  brakes  and  bowers 
Of  folly  and  fun. 

With  the  comrade  heart 
For  a  moment's  play, 
And  the  comrade  heart 
For  a  heavier  day, 
And  the  comrade  heart 
Forever  and  aye. 

For  the  joy  of  wine 
Is  not  for  long ; 
And  the  joy  of  song 
Is  a  dream  of  shine ; 
But  the  comrade  heart 
Shall  outlast  art 
And  a  woman's  love 
The  fame  thereof. 
3 


Vagabon-  But  winc  for  a  sign 
*^**'         Of  the  love  we  bring! 
And  song  for  an  oath 
That  Love  is  king ! 
And  both,  and  both 
For  his  worshipping ! 

Then  up  and  away 
Till  the  break  of  day, 
With  a  heart  that 's  merry. 
And  a  Tom-and- Jerry, 
And  a  derry-down-derry  — 
What 's  that  you  say, 
You  highly  respectable 
Buyers  and  sellers  ? 
We  should  be  decenter? 
Not  as  we  please  inter 
Custom,  frugality, 
Use  and  morality 
In  the  delectable 
Depths  of  wine-cellars  ? 

Midnights  of  revel, 
And  noondays  of  song ! 
Is  it  so  wrong  ? 
Go  to  the  Devil ! 

I  tell  you  that  we. 
While  you  are  smirking 
And  lying  and  shirking 
Life's  duty  of  duties, 
Honest  sincerity, 
We  are  in  verity 
Free! 

Free  to  rejoice 
4 


In  blisses  and  beauties !  Vagaion- 

Free  as  the  voice  '*'**• 

Of  the  wind  as  it  passes ! 

Free  as  the  bird 

In  the  weft  of  the  grasses! 

Free  as  the  word 

Of  the  sun  to  the  sea  — 

Free  I 


3  i- 

WAIF. 

DO  you  know  what  it  is  to  be  vagrant  bom? 
A  waif  is  only  a  waif.     And  so, 
For  another  idle  hour  I  sit, 
In  large  content  while  the  fire  burns  low. 

I  gossip  here  to  my  crony  heart 
Of  the  day  just  over,  and  count  it  one 
Of  the  royal  elemental  days. 
Though  its  dreams  were  few  and  its  deeds  were 
none. 

Outside,  the  winter ;  inside,  the  warmth 
And  a  sweet  oblivion  of  turmoil.     Why? 
All  for  a  gentle  girlish  hand 
With  its  warm  and  lingering  good-bye. 


THE  JOYS  OF  THE  ROAD. 

NOW  the  joys  of  the  road  are  chiefly  these; 
A  crimson  touch  on  the  hard-wood  trees ; 
5 


The  yoyso/p^  vagrant's  morning  wide  and  blue, 
ike  Road.  ^^  early  fall,  when  the  wind  walks,  too*. 

A  shadowy  highway  cool  and  brown, 
Alluring  up  and  enticing  down 

From  rippled  water  to  dappled  swamp, 
From  purple  glory  to  scarlet  pomp ; 

The  outward  eye,  the  quiet  will. 

And  the  striding  heart  from  hill  to  hill ; 

The  tempter  apple  over  the  fence ; 

The  cobweb  bloom  on  the  yellow  quince; 

The  palish  asters  along  the  wood,  — 
A  lyric  touch  of  the  solitude ; 

An  open  hand,  an  easy  shoe, 

And  a  hope  to  make  the  day  go  through,  — 

Another  to  sleep  with,  and  a  third 
To  wake  me  up  at  the  voice  of  a  bird; 

The  resonant  far-listening  morn, 
And  the  hoarse  whisper  of  the  corn ; 

The  crickets  mourning  their  comrades  lost. 
In  the  night's  retreat  from  the  gathering  frost; 

(Or  is  it  their  slogan,  plaintive  and  shrill, 
As  they  beat  on  their  corselets,  valiant  still  ?) 

A  hunger  fit  for  the  kings  of  the  sea, 
And  a  loaf  of  bread  for  Dickon  and  me; 

6 


A  thirst  like  that  of  the  Thirsty  Sword,       Thejoysof 
And  a  jug  of  cider  on  the  board ;  ^'^  ^""^ 

An  idle  noon,  a  bubbling  spring, 
The  sea  in  the  pine-tops  murmuring; 

A  scrap  of  gossip  at  the  ferry ; 

A  comrade  neither  glum  nor  merry, 

Asking  nothing,  revealing  naught. 

But  minting  his  words  from  a  fund  of  thought, 

A  keeper  of  silence  eloquent, 
Needy,  yet  royally  well  content, 

Of  the  mettled  breed,  yet  abhorring  strife, 
And  full  of  the  mellow  juice  of  life, 

A  taster  of  wine,  with  an  eye  for  a  maid, 
Never  too  bold,  and  never  afraid. 

Never  heart-whole,  never  heart-sick, 
(These  are  the  things  I  worship  in  Dick) 

No  fidget  and  no  reformer,  just 

A  calm  observer  of  ought  and  must, 

A  lover  of  books,  but  a  reader  of  man, 
No  cynic  and  no  charlatan. 

Who  never  defers  and  never  demands. 

But,  smiling,  takes  the  world  in  his  hands,  — 

Seeing  it  good  as  when  God  first  saw 
And  gave  it  the  weight  of  his  will  for  law. 

7 


Tkejoysof  p^^^  O  the  joy  that  is  never  won, 

the  Road,  -g^^  foUows  and  follows  the  journeying  sun, 

By  marsh  and  tide,  by  meadow  and  stream, 
A  will-o'-the-wind,  a  light-o'-dream, 

Delusion  afar,  delight  anear, 

From  morrow  to  morrow,  from  year  to  year, 

A  jack-o'-lantern,  a  fairy  fire, 
A  dare,  a  bliss,  and  a  desire ! 

The  racy  smell  of  the  forest  loam, 

When  the  stealthy,  sad-heart  leaves  go  home; 

(O  leaves,  O  leaves,  I  am  one  with  you. 
Of  the  mould  and  the  sun  and  the  wind  and  the 
dew!) 

The  broad  gold  wake  of  the  afternoon ; 
The  silent  fleck  of  the  cold  new  moon ; 

The  sound  of  the  hollow  sea's  release 
From  stormy  tumult  to  starry  peace ; 

With  only  another  league  to  wend ; 

And  two  brown  arms  at  the  journey's  end! 

These  are  the  joys  of  the  open  road  — 
For  him  who  travels  without  a  load. 


EVENING  ON  THE  POTOMAC. 

THE  fervid  breath  of  our  flushed  Southern  May 
Is  sweet  upon  the  city's  throat  and  lips, 
As  a  lover's  whose  tired  arm  slips 
Listlessly  over  the  shoulder  of  a  queen. 

Far  away 

The  river  melts  in  the  unseen. 

Oh,  beautiful  Girl-City,  how  she  dips 

Her  feet  in  the  stream 

With  a  touch  that  is  half  a  kiss  and  half  a  dream ! 

Her  face  is  very  fair. 

With  flowers  for  smiles  and  sunlight  in  her  hair. 

My  westland  flower-town,  how  serene  she  is ! 
Here  on  this  hill  from  which  I  look  at  her, 
All  is  still  as  if  a  worshipper 
Left  at  some  shrine  his  offering. 

Soft  winds  kiss 

My  cheek  with  a  slow  lingering. 

A  luring  whisper  where  the  laurels  stir 

Wiles  my  heart  back  to  woodland-ward  again. 

But  lo. 

Across  the  sky  the  sunset  couriers  run, 

And  I  remain 

To  watch  the  imperial  pageant  of  the  Sun 

Mock  me,  an  impotent  Cortez  here  below, 

With  splendors  of  its  vaster  Mexico. 

O  Eldorado  of  the  templed  clouds  I 

O  golden  city  of  the  western  sky ! 

Not  like  the  Spaniard  would  I  storm  thy  gates ; 

Not  like  the  babe  stretch  chubby  hands  and  cry 

9 


Evening  To  havc  thee  for  a  toy ;  but  far  from  crowds, 
'potimac.  -L^^^  "^y  Faun  brother  in  the  ferny  glen, 

Peer  from  the  wood's  edge  while  thy  glory  waits, 
And  in  the  darkening  thickets  plunge  again. 


M 


SPRING  SONG. 

AKE  me  over,  mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir ! 
When  thy  flowery  hand  delivers 
All  the  mountain-prisoned  rivers. 
And  thy  great  heart  beats  and  quivers 
To  revive  the  days  that  were, 
Make  me  over,  mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir  I 

Take  my  dust  and  all  my  dreaming, 
Count  my  heart-beats  one  by  one. 
Send  them  where  the  winters  perish; 
Then  some  golden  noon  recherish 
And  restore  them  in  the  sun, 
Flower  and  scent  and  dust  and  dreaming, 
With  their  heart-beats  every  one  1 

Set  me  in  the  urge  and  tide-drift 
Of  the  streaming  hosts  a-wing ! 
Breast  of  scarlet,  throat  of  yellow, 
Raucous  challenge,  wooings  mellow  — 
Every  migrant  is  my  fellow. 
Making  northward  with  the  spring. 
Loose  me  in  the  urge  and  tide-drift 
Of  the  streaming  hosts  a-wing ! 

lo 


Shrilling  pipe  or  fluting  whistle,  spring 

In  the  valleys  come  again  ;  '^**^' 

Fife  of  frog  and  call  of  tree-toad, 
All  my  brothers,  five  or  three-toed, 
With  their  revel  no  more  vetoed, 
Making  music  in  the  rain  ; 
Shrilling  pipe  or  fluting  whistle, 
In  the  valleys  come  again. 

Make  me  of  thy  seed  to-morrow, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir ! 
Tawny  light-foot,  sleepy  bruin, 
Bright-eyes  in  the  orchard  ruin, 
Gnarl  the  good  life  goes  askew  in. 
Whiskey-jack,  or  tanager,  — 
Make  me  anything  to-morrow, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir  ! 

Make  me  even  (How  do  I  know?) 

Like  my  friend  the  gargoyle  there ; 

It  may  be  the  heart  within  him 

Swells  that  doltish  hands  should  pin  him 

Fixed  forever  in  mid-air. 

Make  me  even  sport  for  swallows, 

Like  the  soaring  gargoyle  there  I 

Give  me  the  old  clue  to  follow. 
Through  the  labyrinth  of  night! 
Clod  of  clay  with  heart  of  fire. 
Things  that  burrow  and  aspire. 
With  the  vanishing  desire, 
For  the  perishing  delight,  — 
Only  the  old  clue  to  follow, 
Through  the  labyrinth  of  night/ 

!I 


spring  Make  me  over,  mother  April, 
S<»^e-    When  the  sap  begins  to  stir ! 

Fashion  me  from  swamp  or  meadow, 

Garden  plot  or  ferny  shadow, 

Hyacinth  or  humble  burr  ! 

Make  me  over,  mother  April, 

When  the  sap  begins  to  stir ! 

Let  me  hear  the  far,  low  summons, 
When  the  silver  winds  return ; 
Rills  that  run  and  streams  that  stammer, 
Goldenwing  with  his  loud  hammer, 
Icy  brooks  that  brawl  and  clamor. 
Where  the  Indian  willows  burn; 
Let  me  hearken  to  the  calling, 
When  the  silver  winds  return. 

Till  recurring  and  recurring, 
Long  since  wandered  and  come  back. 
Like  a  whim  of  Grieg's  or  Gounod's, 
This  same  self,  bird,  bud,  or  Bluenose, 
Some  day  I  may  capture  (Who  knows  ?) 
Just  the  one  last  joy  I  lack. 
Waking  to  the  far  new  summons, 
When  the  old  spring  winds  come  back. 

For  I  have  no  choice  of  being. 
When  the  sap  begins  to  climb, — 
Strong  insistence,  sweet  intrusion, 
Vasts  and  verges  of  illusion,  — 
So  I  win,  to  time's  confusion. 
The  one  perfect  pearl  of  time, 
Joy  and  joy  and  joy  forever, 
Till  the  sap  forgets  to  climb? 

12 


Make  me  over  in  the  morning  spring 

From  the  rag-bag  of  the  world  !  ^^^' 

Scraps  of  dream  and  duds  of  daring, 
Home-brought  stuff  from  far  sea-faring, 
Faded  colors  once  so  flaring, 
Shreds  of  banners  long  since  furled ! 
Hues  of  ash  and  glints  of  glory, 
In  the  rag-bag  of  the  world ! 

Let  me  taste  the  old  immortal 
Indolence  of  life  once  more ; 
Not  recalling  nor  foreseeing, 
Let  the  great  slow  joys  of  being    ^ 
Well  my  heart  through  as  of  yore ! 
Let  me  taste  the  old  immortal 
Indolence  of  life  once  more ! 

Give  me  the  old  drink  for  rapture, 

The  delirium  to  drain. 

All  my  fellov/s  drank  in  plenty 

At  the  Three  Score  Inns  and  Twenty 

From  the  mountains  to  the  main ! 

Give  me  the  old  drink  for  rapture, 

The  delirium  to  drain ! 

Only  make  me  over,  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir ! 
Make  me  man  or  make  me  woman, 
Make  me  oaf  or  ape  or  human, 
Cup  of  flower  or  cone  of  fir ; 
Make  me  anything  but  neuter 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir ! 


13 


THE    FAUN.      A   FRAGMENT. 

I  WILL  go  out  to  grass  with  that  old  King, 
For  I  am  weary  of  clothes  and  cooks. 
I  long  to  lie  along  the  banks  of  brooks, 
And  watch  the  boughs  above  me  sway  and  swing. 
Come,  I  will  pluck  off  custom's  livery, 
Nor  longer  be  a  lackey  to  old  Time. 
Time  shall  serve  me,  and  at  my  feet  shall  fling 
The  spoil  of  listless  minutes.     I  shall  climb 
The  wild  trees  for  my  food,  and  run 
Through  dale  and  upland  as  a  fox  runs  free, 
Laugh  for  cool  joy  and  sleep  i'  the  warm  sun. 
And  men  will  call  me  mad,  like  that  old  King. 

For  I  am  woodland-natured,  and  have  made  ^ 

Dryads  my  bedfellows, 

And  I  have  played 

With  the  sleek  Naiads  in  the  splash  of  pools 

And  made  a  mock  of  gowned  and  trousered  fools. 

Helen,  none  knows 

Better  than  thou  how  like  a  Faun  I  strayed. 

And  I  am  half  Faun  now,  and  my  heart  goes 

Out  to  the  forest  and  the  crack  of  twigs. 

The  drip  of  wet  leaves  and  the  low  soft  laughter 

Of  brooks  that  chuckle  o'er  old  mossy  jests 

And  say  them  over  to  themselves,  the  nests 

Of  squirrels  and  the  holes  the  chipmunk  digs, 

Where  through  the  branches  the  slant  rays 

Dapple  with  sunlight  the  leaf-matted  ground. 

And  the  wind  comes  with  blown  vesture  rustling  after, 

And  through  the  woven  lattice  of  crisp  sound 

A  bird's  song  lightens  like  a  maiden's  face. 

O  wildwood  Helen,  let  them  strive  and  fret, 
Those  goggled  men  with  their  dissecting-knives! 

H 


Let  them  in  charnel-houses  pass  their  lives  TheFautk 

And  seek  in  death  life's  secret !     And  let 

Those  hard-faced  worldlings  prematurely  old 

Gnaw  their  thin  lips  with  vain  desire  to  get 

Portia's  fair  fame  or  Lesbia's  carcanet, 

Or  crown  of  Caesar  or  Catullus, 

Apicius'  lampreys  or  Crassus'  gold ! 

For  these  consider  many  things  —  but  yet 

By  land  nor  sea 

They  shall  not  find  the  way  to  Arcady, 

The  old  home  of  the  awful  heart-dear  Mother, 

Whereto  child-dreams  and   long  rememberings 
\      lull  us, 

\Far  from  the  cares  that  overlay  and  smother 
JThe  memories  of  old  woodland  out-door  mirth 

In  the  dim  first  life-burst  centuries  ago, 
*The  sense  of  the  freedom  and  nearness  of  Earth  — 

Nay,  this  they  shall  not  know ; 

For  who  goes  thither, 

Leaves  all  the  cark  and  clutch  of  his  soul  behind, 

The  doves  defiled  and  the  serpents  shrined. 

The  hates  that  wax  and  the  hopes  that  wither; 

Nor  does  he  journey,  seeking  where  it  be, 

But  wakes  and  finds  himself  in  Arcady. 

Hist !  there 's  a  stir  in  the  brush. 
Was  it  a  face  through  the  leaves  ? 
Back  of  the  laurels  a  skurry  and  rush 
Hillward,  then  silence  except  for  the  thrush 
That  throws  one  song  from  the  dark  of  the  bush 
And  is  gone ;  and  I  plunge  in  the  wood,  and  the 

swift  soul  cleaves 
Through  the  swirl  and  the  flow  of  the  leaves. 
As  a  swimmer  stands  with  his  white  limbs  bare 

to  the  sun 

IS 


The  Faun.  For  the  space  that  a  breath  is  held,  and  drops  in 
the  sea ; 

And  the  undulant  woodland  folds  round  me,  inti- 
mate, fluctuant,  free. 

Like  the  clasp  and  the  cling  of  waters,  and  the 
reach  and  the  effort  is  done,  — 

There  is  only  the  glory  of  living,  exultant  to  be. 

O  goodly  damp  smell  of  the  ground ! 

O  rough  sweet  bark  of  the  trees ! 

O  clear  sharp  cracklings  of  sound ! 

O  life  that 's  a-thrill  and  a-bound 

With  the  vigor  of  boyhood  and  morning,  and  the 

noontide's  rapture  of  ease ! 
Was  there  ever  a  weary  heart  in  the  world? 
A  lag  in  the  body's  urge  or  a  flag  of  the  spirit's 

wings  ? 
Did  a  man's  heart  ever  break 
For  a  lost  hope's  sake  ? 
For  here  there  is  lilt  in  the  quiet  and  calm  in  the 

quiver  of  things. 
Ay,  this  old  oak,  gray-grown  and  knurled, 
Solemn  and  sturdy  and  big. 
Is  as  young  of  heart,  as  alert  and  elate  in  his  rest, 
As  the  nuthatch  there  that  clings  to  the  tip  of  the 

twig 
And  scolds  at  the  wind  that  it  buffets  tco  rudely 

its  nest. 

Oh,  what  is  it  breathes  in  the  air? 
Oh,  what  is  it  touches  my  cheek  ? 
There  's  a  sense  of  a  presence  that  lurks  in  the 

branches. 
But  where  ? 

Is  it  far,  is  it  far  to  seek  ? 

i6 


ROVER'S  SONG. 

SNOWDRIFT  of  the  mountains. 
Spindrift  of  the  sea, 
We  who  down  the  border 
Rove  from  gloom  to  glee,  — 

Snowdrift  of  the  mountains, 
Spindrift  of  the  sea, 
There  be  no  such  gypsies 
Over  earth  as  we. 

Snowdrift  of  the  mountains, 
Spindrift  of  the  sea. 
Let  us  part  the  treasure 
Of  the  world  in  three. 

Snowdrift  of  the  mountains. 
Spindrift  of  the  sea, 
You  shall  keep  your  kingdoms ; 
Joscelyn  for  me  1 


DOWN  THE  SONGO. 

I. 

FLOATING! 
Floating  —  and  all  the  stillness  waits 
And  listens  at  the  ivory  gates, 
Full  of  a  dim  uncertain  presage 
Of  some  strange,  undelivered  message. 
There  is  no  sound  save  from  the  bush 
The  alto  of  the  shy  wood-thrush, 
And  ever  and  anon  the  dip 
Of  a  lazy  oar. 

17 


Down  the  The  rhythmic  drowsiness  keeps  time 
Songo.      r^^  Y\2jrj  subtleties  of  rhyme 

That  seem  to  slip 

Through  the  lulled  soul  to  seek  the  sleepy  shore. 

The  idle  clouds  go  floating  by ; 

Above  us  sky,  beneath  us  sky; 

The  sun  shines  on  us  as  we  lie 

Floating. 

It  is  a  dream. 

It  is  a  dream,  my  love ;  see  how 

The  ripples  quiver  at  the  prow, 

And  all  the  long  reflections  shake 

Unsteadily  beneath  the  lake. 

The  mists  about  the  uplands  show 

Dim  violet  towers  that  come  and  go. 

Phantasmagoric  palaces 

Rise  trembling  there. 

As  though  one  breath  of  waking  weather 

Would  crash  their  airy  walls  together 

With  sudden  stress. 

While  silent  detonations  shook  the  air  — 

Vast  fabrics  toppling  to  the  ground 

And  vanishing  without  a  sound. 

Ah,  love,  these  are  not  what  we  deem ; 

It  is  a  dream. 


II. 

Let  us  dream  on,  then,  —  dream  and  die 
Ere  the  dream  pass. 
Let  us  for  once,  like  idle  flowers, 
Let  slip  the  unregarded  hours, 
Like  the  wise  flowers  that  lie 

i8 


Unfretted  by  a  feeble  thought,  ^"-"^  ^^ 

Future  and  past  alike  forgot,  ''*^^'^' 

Drinking  the  dew  contentedly 
In  the  cool  grass. 


III. 


Look  yonder  where  the  clouds  float ;  could  we  glide 
As  they,  across  the  sky's  blue  shoreless  tide, 
What  better  were  it  than  to  dream 
Across  yon  lake  and  into  this  still  stream  ? 


IV. 


Trees  and  a  glimpse  of  sky ! 

And  the  slow  river,  quiet  as  a  pool ! 

And  thou  and  I  —  and  thou  and  I  — 

Kiss  me  !    How  soft  the  air  is  and  how  cool ! 


D^ 


THE  WANDER-LOVERS. 

I  OWN  the  world  with  Mama! 

That 's  the  life  for  me  ! 
Wandering  with  the  wandering  wind. 
Vagabond  and  unconfined ! 
Roving  with  the  roving  rain 
Its  unboundaried  domain ! 
Kith  and  kin  of  wander-kind, 
Children  of  the  sea  I 

19 


Lovers. 


The        Petrels  of  the  sea-drift ! 

?i:'fr Swallows  of  the  lea! 

Arabs  of  the  whole  wide  girth 
Of  the  wind-encircled  earth  ! 
In  all  chmes  we  pitch  our  tents, 
Cronies  of  the  elements, 
With  the  secret  lords  of  birth 
Intimate  and  free. 

All  the  seaboard  knows  us 
From  Fundy  to  the  Keys  ; 
Every  bend  and  every  creek 
Of  abundant  Chesapeake ; 
Ardise  hills  and  Newport  coves 
And  the  far-off  orange  groves, 
Where  Floridian  oceans  break, 
Tropic  tiger  seas. 

Down  the  world  with  Marna, 
Tarrying  there  and  here  ! 
Just  as  much  at  home  in  Spain 
As  in  Tangier  or  Touraine  ! 
Shakespeare's  Avon  knows  us  well, 
And  the  crags  of  Neufchatel ; 
And  the  ancient  Nile  is  fain 
Of  our  coming  near. 

Down  the  world  with  Marna, 
Daughter  of  the  air ! 
Marna  of  the  subtle  grace, 
And  the  vision  in  her  face ! 
Moving  in  the  measures  trod 
By  the  angels  before  God  ! 
With  her  sky-blue  eyes  amaze 
And  her  sea-blue  hair ! 

20 


Marna  with  the  trees'  life  The 

In  her  veins  a-stir !  SSr 

Marna  of  the  aspen  heart 
Where  the  sudden  quivers  start ! 
Quick-responsive,  subtle,  wild  1 
Artless  as  an  artless  child, 
Spite  of  all  her  reach  of  art ! 
Oh,  to  roam  with  herl 

Marna  with  the  wind's  will, 
Daughter  of  the  sea! 
Marna  of  the  quick  disdain. 
Starting  at  the  dream  of  stain! 
At  a  smile  with  love  aglow, 
At  a  frown  a  statu ed  woe, 
Standing  pinnacled  in  pain 
Till  a  kiss  sets  free ! 

Down  the  world  with  Marna, 
Daughter  of  the  fire ! 
Marna  of  the  deathless  hope, 
Still  alert  to  win  new  scope 
Where  the  wings  of  life  may  spread 
For  a  flight  unhazarded ! 
Dreaming  of  the  speech  to  cope 
With  the  heart's  desire  ! 

Marna  of  the  far  quest 
After  the  divine ! 
Striving  ever  for  some  goal 
Past  the  blunder-god's  control ! 
Dreaming  of  potential  years 
When  no  day  shall  dawn  in  fears ! 
That's  the  Marna  of  my  soul. 
Wander-bride  of  mine ! 

21 


9 


i^A^- 


DISCOVERY. 

WHEN  the  bugler  morn  shall  wind  his  horn, 
And  we  wake  to  the  wild  to  be, 
Shall  we  open  our  eyes  on  the  selfsame  skies 
And  stare  at  the  selfsame  sea  ? 
O  new,  new  day !  though  you  bring  no  stay 
To  the  strain  of  the  sameness  grim, 
You  are  new,  new,  new  —  new  through  and  through, 
And  strange  as  a  lawless  dream. 

Will  the  driftwood  float  by  the  lOnely  boat 

And  our  prisoner  hearts  unbar. 

As  it  tells  of  the  strand  of  an  unseen  land 

That  lies  not  far,  not  far? 

O  new,  new  hope !     O  sweep  and  scope 

Of  the  glad,  unlying  sea ! 

You  are  new,  new,  new  —  with  the  promise  true 

Of  the  dreamland  isles  to  be. 

Will  the  land-birds  fly  across  the  sky. 

Though  the  land  is  not  to  see  ? 

Have  they  dipped  and  passed  in  the  sea-line  vast  ? 

Have  we  left  the  land  alee ? 

O  new  despair !  though  the  hopeless  air 

Grow  foul  with  the  calm  and  grieves, 

You  are  new,  new,  new  —  and  we  cleave  to  you 

As  a  soul  to  its  freedom  cleaves. 

Does  the  falling  night  hide  fiends  to  fight 

And  phantoms  to  affray? 

What  demons  lurk  in  the  grisly  mirk. 

As  the  night-watch  waits  for  day? 

O  strange  new  gloom  !  we  await  the  doom, 

And  what  doom  none  may  deem ; 

But  it 's  new,  new,  new  —  and  we  '11  sail  it  through, 

While  the  mocking  sea-gulls  scream. 

22 


A  light,  a  light,  in  the  dead  of  night,  Dis- 

That  lifts  and  sinks  in  the  waves !  covery. 

What  folk  are  they  who  have  kindled  its  ray,  — 

Men  or  the  ghouls  of  graves? 

O  new,  new  fear !  near,  near  and  near, 

And  you  bear  us  weal  or  woe  ! 

But  you  're  new,  new,  new  —  so  a  cheer  for  you  f 

And  onward  —  friend  or  foe  ! 

Shall  the  lookout  call  from  the  foretop  tall, 

"  Land,  land  !  "  with  a  maddened  scream, 

And  the  crew  in  glee  from  the  taffrail  see 

Where  the  island  palm-trees  dream  ? 

New  heart,  new  eyes  !     For  the  morning  skies 

Are  a-chant  with  their  green  and  gold ! 

New,  new,  new,  new —  new  through  and  through ! 

New,  new  till  the  dawn  is  old ! 


MORE   ANCIENT   MARINER. 

THE  swarthy  bee  is  a  buccaneer, 
A  burly  velveted  rover, 
Who  loves  the  booming  wind  in  his  ear 
As  he  sails  the  seas  of  clover. 

A  waif  of  the  goblin  pirate  crew. 
With  not  a  soul  to  deplore  him. 
He  steers  for  the  open  verge  of  blue 
With  the  filmy  world  before  him. 

His  flimsy  sails  abroad  on  the  wind 
Are  shivered  with  fairy  thunder; 
On  a  line  that  sings  to  the  light  of  his  wings 
He  makes  for  the  lands  of  wonder. 

23 


^^Ztt   ^^  harries  the  ports  of  the  HoUyhocks,- 
j\/^riner.^^^  levies  on  poor  Sweetbrier; 

He  drinks  the  whitest  wine  of  Phlox, 

And  the  Rose  is  his  desire. 


He  hangs  in  the  Willows  a  night  and  a  day; 
He  rifles  the  Buckwheat  patches  ; 
Then  battens  his  store  of  pelf  galore 
Under  the  tautest  hatches. 

He  woos  the  Poppy  and  weds  the  Peach, 
Inveigles  Daffodilly, 
And  then  like  a  tramp  abandons  each 
For  the  gorgeous  Canada  Lily. 

There 's  not  a  soul  in  the  garden  world 
But  wishes  the  day  were  shorter, 
When  Mariner  B.  puts  out  to  sea 
With  the  wind  in  the  proper  quarter. 

Or,  so  they  say !     But  I  have  my  doubts ; 
For  the  flowers  are  only  human, 
And  the  valor  and  gold  of  a  vagrant  bold 
Were  always  dear  to  woman. 

He  dares  to  boast,  along  the  coast, 
The  beauty  of  Highland  Heather,  — 
How  he  and  she,  with  night  on  the  sea, 
Lay  out  on  the  hills  together. 

He  pilfers  from  every  port  of  the  wind. 
From  April  to  golden  autumn  ; 
But  the  thieving  ways  of  his  mortal  days 
Are  those  his  mother  taught  him. 

24 


His  morals  are  mixed,  but  his  will  is  fixed ;  ^  ^^^^ 

He  prospers  after  his  kind,  'tfarmer. 

And  follows  an  instinct,  compass-sure, 
The  philosophers  call  blind. 

And  that  is  why,  when  he  comes  to  die, 
He  '11  have  an  easier  sentence 
Than  some  one  I  know  who  thinks  just  so. 
And  then  leaves  room  for  repentance. 

He  never  could  box  the  compass  round ; 

He  does  n't  know  port  from  starboard ; 

But  he  knows  the  gates  of  the  Sundown  Straits, 

Where  the  choicest  goods  are  harbored. 

He  never  could  see  the  Rule  of  Three, 
But  he  knows  a  rule  of  thumb 
Better  than  Euclid's,  better  than  yours. 
Or  the  teachers'  yet  to  come. 

He  knows  the  smell  of  the  hydromet 
As  if  two  and  two  were  five ; 
And  hides  it  away  for  a  year  and  a  day 
In  his  own  hexagonal  hive. 

Out  in  the  day,  hap-hazard,  alone. 
Booms  the  old  vagrant  hummer, 
With  only  his  whim  to  pilot  him 
Through  the  splendid  vast  of  summer. 

He  steers  and  steers  on  the  slant  of  the  gale, 
Like  the  fiend  or  Vanderdecken  ; 
And  there's  never  an  unknown  course  to  sail 
But  his  crazy  log  can  reckon. 

25 


A  More   He  droncs  along  with  his  rough  sea-song 
if^i-lnlr.  ^^^  t^^  throat  of  a  salty  tar, 

*  This  devil-may-care,  till  he  makes  his  lair 
By  the  Hght  of  a  yellow  star. 

He  looks  like  a  gentleman,  lives  like  a  lord, 
And  works  like  a  Trojan  hero; 
Then  loafs  all  winter  upon  his  hoard, 
With  the  mercury  at  zero. 


SONG   BY  THE   SHORE. 
"  T    OSE  and  love  "  is  love's  first  art ; 

I   V  So  it  was  with  thee  and  me, 
For  I  first  beheld  thy  heart 
On  the  night  I  last  saw  thee. 
Pine-woods  and  mysteries ! 
Sea-sands  and  sorrows ! 
Hearts  fluttered  by  a  breeze 
That  bodes  dark  morrows,  morrows, — 
Bodes  dark  morrows ! 

Moonlight  in  sweet  overflow 
Poured  upon  the  earth  and  sea ! 
Lovelight  with  intenser  glow 
In  the  deeps  of  thee  and  me  ! 
Clasped  hands  and  silences ! 
Hearts  faint  and  throbbing! 
The  weak  wind  sighing  in  the  trees! 
The  strong  surf  sobbing,  sobbing,  — 
The  strong  surf  sobbing ! 


26 


HILL   SONG. 

HILLS  where  once  my  love  and  I 
Let  the  hours  go  laughing  by ! 
All  your  woods  and  dales  are  sad,  — 
You  have  lost  your  Oread. 
Falling  leaves  !     Silent  woodlands ! 
Half  your  loveliness  is  fled. 
Golden-rod,  wither  now ! 
Winter  winds,  come  hither  now! 
All  the  summer  joy  is  dead. 

There 's  a  sense  of  something  gone 
In  the  grass  I  linger  on. 
There  's  an  under-voice  that  grieves 
In  the  rustling  of  the  leaves. 
Pine-clad  peaks  !     Rushing  waters ! 
Glens  where  we  were  once  so  glad ! 
There  's  a  light  passed  from  you, 
There 's  a  joy  outcast  from  you,  — 
You  have  lost  your  Oread. 


SEA. 

AS  a  brave  man  faces  the  foe, 
Alone  against  hundreds,  and  sees  Death  grin 
in  his  teeth. 
But,  shutting  his  lips,  fights  on  to  the  end 
Without  speech,  without  hope,  without  flinching, - 
So,  silently,  grimly,  the  steamer 
Lurches  ahead  through  the  night. 

27 


At  Sea.  A  beacon-light  far  off, 

Twinkling  across  the  waves  like  a  star ! 

But  no  star  in  the  dark  overhead ! 

The  splash  of  waters  at  the  prow,  and  the  evil 

light 
Of    the  death-fires  flitting  like  will-o'-the-wisps 

beneath !     And  beyond 
Silence  and  night ! 

I  sit  by  the  taffrail, 

Alone  in  the  dark  and  the  blown  cold  mist  and 

the  spray, 
Feeling  myself  swept  on  irresistibly, 
Sunk  in  the  night  and  the  sea,  and  made  one  with 

their  footfall-less  onrush, 
Letting  myself  be  borne  like  a  spar  adrift 
Helplessly  into  the  night. 

Without  fear,  without  wish, 
Insensate  save  of  a  dull,  crushed  ache  in  my  heart. 
Careless  whither  the  steamer  is  going, 
Conscious  only  as  in  a  dream  of  the  wet  and  the 

dark 
And  of  a  form  that  looms  and  fades  indistinctly 
Everywhere  out  of  the  night. 

O  love,  how  came  I  here  ? 

Shall  I  wake  at  thy  side  and  smile  at  my  dream  ? 

The  dream  that  grips  me  so  hard  that  I  cannot 
wake  nor  stir ! 

O  love !     O  my  own  love,  found  but  to  be  lost ! 

My  soul  sends  over  the  waters  a  wild  inarticu- 
late cry, 

Like  a  gull's  scream  heard  in  the  night. 

28 


The  mist  creeps  closer.     The  beacon  Ai  Sea, 

Vanishes  astern.     The  sea's  monotonous  noises 
Lapse  through  the  drizzle  with  a  listless,  subsid- 


ing cadence. 


And  thou,  O  love,  and  the  sea  throb  on  in  my 

brain  together, 
While  the  steamer  plunges  along, 
Butting  its  way  through  the  night. 


I 


ISABEL. 

N  her  body's  perfect  sweet 
Suppleness  and  languor  meet, — 
Arms  that  move  like  lapsing  billows, 
Breasts  that  Love  would  make  his  pillows. 
Eyes  where  vision  melts  in  bliss. 
Lips  that  ripen  to  a  kiss. 


CONTEMPORARIES. 

"  A    BARBERED  woman's  man,'*  —  yes,  so 
jl\.  He  seemed  to  me  a  twelvemonth  since ; 
And  so  he  may  be  —  let  it  go  — 
Admit  his  flaws  —  we  need  not  wince 
To  find  our  noblest  not  all  great. 
What  of  it?     He  is  still  the  prince, 
And  we  the  pages  of  his  state. 

29 


Coniewpo-  The  world  applauds  his  words ;  his  fame 
rarks.       jg  noised  wherever  knowledge  be ; 

Even  the  trader  hears  his  name, 

As  one  far  inland  hears  the  sea; 

The  lady  quotes  him  to  the  beau 

Across  a  cup  of  Russian  tea ; 

They  know  him  and  they  do  not  know. 

I  know  him.     In  the  nascent  years 
Men's  eyes  shall  see  him  as  one  crowned ; 
His  voice  shall  gather  in  their  ears 
With  each  new  age  prophetic  sound ; 
And  you  and  I  and  all  the  rest, 
Whose  brows  to-day  are  laurel-bound, 
Shall  be  but  plumes  upon  his  crest. 

A  year  ago  this  man  was  poor,  — 

This  Alfred  whom  the  nations  praise ; 

He  stood  a  beggar  at  my  door 

For  one  mere  word  to  help  him  raise      , 

From  fainting  limbs  and  shoulders  bent 

The  burden  of  the  weary  days ; 

And  I  withheld  it  —  and  he  went. 

'^  I  knew  him  then,  as  I  know  now, 
Our  largest  heart,  our  loftiest  mind; 
Yet  for  the  curls  upon  his  brow 
And  for  his  lisp,  I  could  not  find 
The  helping  word,  the  cheering  touch. 
Ah,  to  be  just,  as  well  as  kind,  — 
It  costs  so  little  and  so  much  ! 

It  seemed  unmanly  in  my  sight 
That  he,  whose  spirit  was  so  strong 
To  lead  the  blind  world  to  the  light, 
30 


Should  look  so  like  the  mincing  throng  Contempo- 

Who  advertise  the  tailor's  art.  '''''''^' 

It  angered  me  —  I  did  him  wrong  — 
I  grudged  my  groat  and  shut  my  heart. 

I  might  have  been  the  prophet's  friend, 
Helped  him  who  is  to  help  the  world ! 
Now,  when  the  striving  is  at  end, 
The  reek-stained  battle-banners  furled, 
And  the  age  hears  its  muster-call, 
Then  I,  because  his  hair  was  curled, 
I  shall  have  lost  my  chance  —  that 's  all. 


THE   TWO   BOBBIES. 

BOBBIE  BURNS  and  Bobbie  Browning, 
They  're  the  boys  I  'd  like  to  see. 
Though  I  'm  not  the  boy  for  Bobbie, 
Bobbie  is  the  boy  for  me ! 

Bobbie  Browning  was  the  good  boy ; 
Turned  the  language  inside  out, 
Wrote  his  plays  and  had  his  days, 
Died  —  and  held  his  peace,  no  doubt. 

Poor  North  Bobbie  was  the  bad  boy,  — 
Bad,  bad,  bad,  bad  Bobbie  Burns ! 
Loved  and  made  the  world  his  lover. 
Kissed  and  barleycorned  by  turns. 

31 


The  Two  London's  dweller,  child  of  wisdom, 
Bobbies,  pr^p^  j^jg  counsel,  took  his  toll ; 

Ayrshire's  vagrant  paid  the  piper, 
Lost  the  game  —  God  save  his  soul ! 

Bobbie  Burns  and  Bobbie  Browning, 
What's  the  difference,  you  see? 
Bob  the  lover.  Bob  the  lawyer ; 
Bobbie  is  the  boy  for  me ! 


TOAST. 

HERE 'S  a  health  to  thee,  Roberts, 
And  here 's  a  health  to  me ; 
And  here  's  to  all  the  pretty  girls 
From  Denver  to  the  sea ! 

Here 's  to  mine  and  here  's  to  thine  \ 
Now  's  the  time  to  clink  it ! 
Here 's  a  flagon  of  old  wine, 
And  here  are  we  to  drink  it. 

Wine  that  maketh  glad  the  heart 
Of  the  bully  boy ! 
Here  's  the  toast  that  we  love  most. 
"  Love  and  song  and  joy ! " 

Song  that  is  the  flower  of  love. 
And  joy  that  is  the  fruit ! 
Here 's  the  love  of  woman,  lad, 
And  here 's  our  love  to  boot ! 
32 


You  and  I  are  far  too  wise  A  Toast. 

Not  to  fill  our  glasses. 

Here  's  to  me  and  here  's  to  thee, 

And  here  's  to  all  the  lasses  \ 


THE   KAVANAGH. 

ASTON E  jug  and  a  pewter  mug, 
And  a  table  set  for  three ! 
A  jug  and  a  mug  at  every  place, 
And  a  biscuit  or  two  with  Brie ! 
Three  stone  jugs  of  Cruiskeen  Lawn, 
And  a  cheese  like  crusted  foam ! 
The  Kavanagh  receives  to-night! 
McMurrough  is  at  home ! 

We  three  and  the  barley-bree  ! 

And  a  health  to  the  one  away. 

Who  drifts  down  careless  Italy, 

God's  wanderer  and  estray  ! 

For  friends  are  more  than  Arno's  store 

Of  garnered  charm,  and  he 

Were  blither  with  us  here  the  night 

Than  Titian  bids  him  be. 

Throw  ope  the  window  to  the  stars, 
And  let  the  warm  night  in  ! 
Who  knows  what  revelry  in  Mars 
May  rhyme  with  rouse  akin  ? 
Fill  up  and  drain  the  loving  cup 
And  leave  no  drop  to  waste ! 
The  moon  looks  in  to  see  what 's  up  — 
Begad,  she  'd  like  a  taste  1 
33 


The  What  odds  if  Leinster's  kingly  roll 

Kavanagh.  g^  ^^^  ^^  j^j^  tMxXig'i 

The  world  is  his  who  takes  his  toll, 

A  vagrant  or  a  king. 

What  though  the  crown  be  melted  down. 

And  the  heir  a  gypsy  roam  ? 

The  Kavanagh  receives  to-night  t 

McMurrough  is  at  home! 


We  three  and  the  barley-bree ! 

And  the  moonlight  on  the  floor ! 

Who  were  a  man  to  do  with  less? 

What  emperor  has  more  ? 

Three  stone  jugs  of  Cruiskeen  Lawn, 

And  three  stout  hearts  to  drain 

A  slanter  to  the  truth  in  the  heart  of  youth 

And  the  joy  of  the  love  of  men. 


CAPTAIN   OF  THE   PRESS-GANG. 

SHIPMATE,  leave  the  ghostly  shadows, 
Where  thy  boon  companions  throng  I 
We  will  put  to  sea  together 
Through  the  twilight  with  a  song. 

Leering  closer,  rank  and  girding, 
In  this  Black  Port  where  we  bide, 
Reel  a  thousand  flaring  faces; 
But  escape  is  on  the  tide. 
34 


Let  the  tap-rooms  of  the  city  ^  Captain 

Reek  till  the  red  dawn  comes  round.         "oang/"'' 
There  is  better  wine  in  plenty 
On  the  cruise  where  we  are  bound. 

I  Ve  aboard  a  hundred  messmates 
Better  than  these  'long-shore  knaves. 
There  is  wreckage  on  the  shallows; 
It 's  the  open  sea  that  saves. 

Hark,  lad,  dost  not  hear  it  calling? 
That 's  the  voice  thy  father  knew. 
When  he  took  the  King's  good  cutlass 
In  his  grip,  and  fought  it  through. 

Who  would  palter  at  press-money 
When  he  heard  that  sea-cry  vast  '^. 
That 's  the  call  makes  lords  of  lubbers, 
When  they  ship  before  the  mast. 

Let  thy  cronies  of  the  tavern 
Keep  their  kisses  bought  with  gold; 
On  the  high  seas  there  are  regions 
Where  the  heart  is  never  old, 

Where  the  great  winds  every  morning 
Sweep  the  sea-floor  clean  and  white, 
And  upon  the  steel-blue  arches 
Burnish  the  great  stars  of  night; 

There  the  open  hand  will  lose  not, 
Nor  the  loosened  tongue  betray. 
Signed,  and  with  our  sailing  orders. 
We  will  clear  before  the  day ; 
35 


A  Captain  Qii  the  shilling  yards  of  heaven 
Giir''"'"See  a  wider  dawn  unfurled.  .  .  . 
The  eternal  slaves  of  beauty 
Are  the  masters  of  the  world. 


THE   BUCCANEERS. 

OH,  not  for  us  the  easy  mirth 
Of  men  that  never  roam  ! 
The  crackling  of  the  narrow  hearth, 
The  cabined  joys  of  home ! 
Keep  your  tame,  regulated  glee, 
O  pale  protected  State ! 
Our  dwelling-place  is  on  the  sea. 
Our  joy  the  joy  of  Fate ! 

No  long  caresses  give  us  ease, 

No  lazy  languors  warm  ; 

We  seize  our  mates  as  the  sea-gulls  seize. 

And  leave  them  to  the  storm. 

But  in  the  bridal  halls  of  gloom 

The  couch  is  stern  and  strait ; 

For  us  the  marriage  rite  of  Doom, 

The  nuptial  joy  of  Fate. 

Wine  for  the  weaklings  of  the  town, 
Their  lucky  toasts  to  drain  ! 
Our  skoal  for  them  whose  star  goes  down, 
Our  drink  the  drink  of  men  ! 
No  Bacchic  ivy  for  our  brows  ! 
36 


Like  vikings,  we  await  "^ 

The  grim,  ungarlanded  carouse  Buccaneers. 

We  keep  to-night  with  Fate. 

Ho,  gamesters  of  the  pampered  court ! 

What  stakes  are  those  at  strife  ? 

Your  thousands  are  but  paltry  sport 

To  them  that  play  for  life. 

You  risk  doubloons,  and  hold  your  breath, 

Win  groats,  and  wax  elate ; 

But  we  throw  loaded  dice  with  Death, 

And  call  the  turn  on  Fate. 

The  kings  of  earth  are  crowned  with  care, 

Their  poets  wail  and  sigh ; 

Our  music  is  to  do  and  dare, 

Our  empire  is  to  die. 

Against  the  storm  we  fling  our  glee 

And  shout,  till  Time  abate 

The  exultation  of  the  sea, 

The  fearful  joy  of  Fate. 


THE  WAR-SONG  OF  GAMELBAR. 

OWMEN,  shout  for  Gamelbar! 

Winds,  unthrottle  the  wolves  of  war! 
Heave  a  breath 
And  dare  a  death 
For  the  doom  of  Gamelbar  I 
Wealth  for  Gamel, 
Wine  for  Gamel, 
Crimson  wine  for  Gamelbar ! 

37 


rAs  ivar-  Chorus  :  —  Oh,  sleep  for  a  knave 
oZefbar.  With  his  sins  in  the  sod ! 

And  death  for  the  brave, 
With  his  glory  up  to  God ! 
And  joy  for  the  girl, 
And  ease  for  the  churl ! 
But  the  great  game  of  war 
For  our  lord  Gamelbar, 
Gamelbar  i 

Spearmen,  shout  for  Gamelbar, 
With  his  Saxon  thirty  score! 
Heave  a  sword 
For  our  overlord, 
Lord  of  warriors,  Gamelbar! 
Life  for  Gamel, 
Love  for  Gamel, 
Lady-loves  for  Gamelbar! 

Horsemen,  shout  for  Gamelbar ! 

Swim  the  ford  and  climb  the  scaur  I 

Heave  a  hand 

For  the  maiden  land, 

The  maiden  land  of  Gamelbar ! 

Glory  for  Gamel, 

Gold  for  Gamel, 

Yellow  gold  for  Gamelbar ! 

Armorers  for  Gamelbar, 
Rivet  and  forge  and  fear  no  scar ! 
Heave  a  hammer 
With  anvil  clamor. 
To  weld  and  brace  for  Gamelbar  I 
Ring  for  Gamel ! 
Rung  for  Gamel ! 
Ring-rung-ring  for  Gamelbar ! 

38 


Yeomen,  shout  for  Gamelbar,  ^^  ^^^ 

And  his  battle-hand  in  war  I  GanJlbar. 

Heave  his  pennon; 

Cheer  his  men  on, 

In  the  ranks  of  Gamelbar! 

Strength  for  Gamel, 

Song  for  Gamel, 

One  war-song  for  Gamelbar! 

Roncliffe,  shout  for  Gamelbar! 
Menthorpe,  Bryan,  Castelfar ! 
Heave,  Thorparch 
Of  the  Waving  Larch, 
And  Spofford's  thane,  for  Gamelbar ! 
Blaise  for  Gamel, 
Brame  for  Gamel, 
Rougharlington  for  Gamelbar  1 

Maidens,  strew  for  Gamelbar 

Roses  down  his  way  to  warl 

Heave  a  handful. 

Fill  the  land  full 

Of  your  gifts  to  Gamelbar ! 

Dream  of  Gamel, 

Dance  for  Gamel, 

Dance  in  the  halls  for  Gamelbar! 

Servitors,  shout  for  Gamelbar ! 

Roast  the  ox  and  stick  the  boar! 

Heave  a  bone 

To  gaunt  Harone, 

The  great  war-hound  of  Gamelbar! 

Mead  for  Gamel, 

Mirth  for  Gamel, 

Mirth  at  the  board  for  Gamelbar ! 

39 


The  War-  Trumpets,  speak  for  Gamelbar ! 
^a^%ar.  Blare  as  ye  never  blared  before ! 

Heave  a  bray 

In  the  horns  to-day, 

The  red  war-horns  of  Gamelbar ! 

To-night  for  Gamel, 

The  North  for  Gamel, 

With  fires  on  the  hills  for  Gamelbar! 

Shout  for  Gamel,  Gamelbar, 

Till  your  throats  can  shout  no  more ! 

Heave  a  cry 

As  he  rideth  by, 

Sons  of   Orm,  for  Gamelbar ! 

Folk  for  Gamel, 

Fame  for  Gamel, 

Years  and  fame  for  Gamelbar ! 

Chorus  :  —  Oh,  sleep  for  a  knave 

With  his  sins  in  the  sod ! 
And  death  for  the  brave. 
With  his  glory  up  to  God  I 
And  joy  for  the  girl. 
And  ease  for  the  churl ! 
But  the  great  game  of  war 
For  our  lord  Gamelbar, 
Gamelbar! 


THE  OUTLAW. 

H,  let  my  lord  laugh  in  his  halls 
When  he  the  tale  shall  tell ! 
But  woe  to  Jarlwell  and  its  walls 

40 


O 


When  I  shall  laugh  as  well !  otS/aw 

And  he  that  laughs  the  last,  lads,  **■ 

Laughs  well,  laughs  well ! 

He 's  lord  of  many  a  burg  and  farm 

And  mickle  thralls  and  gold, 

And  I  am  but  my  own  right  arm, 

My  dwelling-place  the  wold. 

But  when  we  twain  meet  face  to  face, 

He  will  not  laugh  so  bold. 

The  shame  he  chuckles  as  he  shows 
This  time  he  need  not  tell ; 
I  '11  give  his  body  to  the  crows, 
And  his  black  soul  to  Hell. 
For  he  that  laughs  the  last,  lads, 
Laughs  well,  laughs  well  1 


THE  KING'S  SON. 

"  "pv  AUGHTER,  daughter,  marry  no  man, 
JLy  Though  a  king's  son  come  to  woo, 
H  he  be  not  more  than  blessing  or  ban 
To  the  secret  soul  of  you." 

"'Tis  the  King's  son,  indeed,  I  ween. 
And  he  left  me  even  iDut  now, 
And  he  shall  make  me  a  dazzling  queen. 
With  a  gold  crown  on  my  brow." 

41 


The  King' s*-^  And  are  you  one  that  a  golden  crown, 
Sotu  Qj,  ^^  jyg^  q£  ^  name  can  lure  ? 

You  had  better  wed  with  a  country  clown, 
And  keep  your  young  heart  pure. 

"  Mother,  the  King  has  sworn,  and  said 
That  his  son  shall  wed  but  me ; 
And  I  must  gang  to  the  prince's  bed, 
Or  a  traitor  I  shall  be." 

"  Oh,  what  care  you  for  an  old  man's  wrath  ? 
Or  what  care  you  for  a  king? 
I  had  rather  you  fled  on  an  outlaw's  path, 
A  rebel,  a  hunted  thing." 

*'  Mother,  it  is  my  father's  will, 
For  the  King  has  promised  him  fair 
A  goodly  earldom  of  hollow  and  hill. 
And  a  coronet  to  wear." 

"  Then  woe  is  worth  a  father's  name, 
For  it  names  your  dourest  foe  ! 
I  had  rather  you  came  the  child  of  shame 
Than  to  have  you  fathered  so." 

"  Mother,  I  shall  have  gold  enow, 
Though  love  be  never  mine. 
To  buy  all  else  that  the  world  can  show 
Of  good  and  fair  and  fine." 

"  Oh,  what  care  you  for  a  prince's  gold, 
Or  the  key  of  a  kingdom's  till } 
I  had  rather  see  you  a  harlot  bold 
That  sins  of  her  own  free  will. 

42 


"  For  I  have  been  wife  for  the  stomach's  sake,     ^^  ^»V 
And  I  know  whereof  I  say  ;  *"*' 

A  harlot  is  sold  for  a  passing  slake, 
But  a  wife  is  sold  for  aye. 

"  Body  and  soul  for  a  lifetime  sell, 
And  the  price  of  the  sale  shall  be 
That  you  shall  be  harlot  and  slave  as  well 
Until  Death  set  you  free." 


LAURANA'S  SONG,    for  "A  lady  of  Venice." 

WHO'LL  have  the  crumpled  pieces  of  a 
heart? 
Let  him  take  mine ! 

Who  '11  give  his  whole  of  passion  for  a  part, 
And  call 't  divine  ? 

Who'll  have  the  soiled  remainder  of  desire? 
Who  '11  warm  his  fingers  at  a  burnt-out  fire  ? 
Who'll  drink  the  lees  of  love,  and  cast  i'  the 

mire 
The  nobler  wine  ? 

Let  him  come  here,  and  kiss  me  on  the  mouth. 

And  have  his  will ! 

Love  dead  and  dry  as  summer  in  the  South 

When  winds  are  still 

And  all  the  leafage  shrivels  in  the  heat ! 

Let  him  come  here  and  linger  at  my  feet 

Till  he  grow  weary  with  the  over-sweet, 

And  die,  or  kill. 


43 


LAUNA  DEE. 

WEARY,  oh,  so  weary 
With  it  all ! 
Sunny  days  or  dreary  — 
How  they  pall ! 
Why  should  we  be  heroes, 
Launa  Dee, 

Striving  to  no  winning? 
Let  the  world  be  Zero's ! 
As  in  the  beginning 
Let  it  be ! 

What  good  comes  of  toiling, 

When  all 's  done  ? 

Frail  green  sprays  for  spoiling 

Of  the  sun ; 

Laurel  leaf  or  myrtle, 

Love  or  fame  — 

Ah,  what  odds  what  spray,  sweet? 

Time,  that  makes  life  fertile, 

Makes  its  blooms  decay,  sweet, 

As  they  came. 

Lie  here  with  me  dreaming. 

Cheek  to  cheek, 

Lithe  limbs  twined  and  gleaming, 

Brown  and  sleek ; 

Like  two  serpents  coiling 

In  their  lair. 

Where 's  the  good  of  wreathing 

Sprays  for  Time's  despoiling? 

Let  me  feel  your  breathing 

In  my  hair. 


44 


You  and  I  together  —  Launa 

Was  it  so  ? 

In  the  August  weather 

Long  ago ! 

Did  we  kiss  and  fellow, 

Side  by  side, 

Till  the  sunbeams  quickened 

From  our  stalks  great  yellow 

Sunflowers,  till  we  sickened 

There  and  died  ? 


Were  we  tigers  creeping 

Through  the  glade 

Where  our  prey  lay  sleeping, 

Unafraid, 

In  some  Eastern  jungle  ? 

Better  so. 

I  am  sure  the  snarling 

Beasts  could  never  bungle 

Life  as  men  do,  darling, 

Who  half  know. 


Ah,  if  all  of  life,  love, 

Were  the  living ! 

Just  to  cease  from  strife,  love, 

And  from  grieving ; 

Let  the  swift  world  pass  us, 

You  and  me, 

Stilled  from  all  aspiring,  — 

Sinai  nor  Parnassus 

Longer  worth  desiring, 

Launa  Dee ! 

45 


Launa  Just  to  livc  like  lilies 
^'''     In  the  lake  ! 

Where  no  thought  nor  will  is. 

To  mistake  ! 

Just  to  lose  the  human 

Eyes  that  weep ! 

Just  to  cease  from  seeming 

Longer  man  and  woman  I 

Just  to  reach  the  dreaming 

And  the  sleep ! 


THE   MENDICANTS. 

WE  are  as  mendicants  who  wait 
Along  the  roadside  in  the  sun. 
Tatters  of  yesterday  and  shreds 
Of  morrow  clothe  us  every  one. 

And  some  are  dotards,  who  believe 
And  glory  in  the  days  of  old ; 
While  some  are  dreamers,  harping  still 
Upon  an  unknown  age  of  gold. 

Hopeless  or  witless !     Not  one  heeds, 
As  lavish  Time  comes  down  the  way 
And  tosses  in  the  suppliant  hat 
One  great  new-minted  gold  To-day. 

Ungrateful  heart  and  grudging  thanks, 
His  beggar's  wisdom  only  sees 
Housing  and  bread  and  beer  enough ; 
He  knows  no  other  things  than  these. 

46 


O  foolish  ones,  put  by  your  care !  ^'^  ^'*- 

Where  wants  are  many,  joys  are  few ;         dtcants. 
And  at  the  wilding  springs  of  peace, 
God  keeps  an  open  house  for  you. 

But  that  some  Fortunatus'  gift 
Is  lying  there  within  his  hand, 
More  costly  than  a  pot  of  pearls, 
His  dulness  does  not  understand. 

And  so  his  creature  heart  is  filled ; 
His  shrunken  self  goes  starved  away. 
Let  him  wear  brand-new  garments  still, 
Who  has  a  threadbare  soul,  I  say. 

But  there  be  others,  happier  few, 
The  vagabondish  sons  of  God, 
Who  know  the  by-ways  and  the  flowers, 
And  care  not  how  the  world  may  plod. 

They  idle  down  the  traffic  lands, 

And  loiter  through  the  woods  with  spring; 

To  them  the  glory  of  the  earth 

Is  but  to  hear  a  bluebird  sing. 

They  too  receive  each  one  his  Day ; 
But  their  wise  heart  knows  many  things 
Beyond  the  sating  of  desire, 
Above  the  dignity  of  kings. 

One  I  remember  kept  his  coin, 
And  laughing  flipped  it  in  the  air; 
But  when  two  strolling  pipe-players 
Came  by,  he  tossed  it  to  the  pair. 

47 


^^^^«-  Spendthrift  of  Joy,  his  childish  heart 
"^^^  ^'     Danced  to  their  wild  outlandish  bars ; 
Then  supperless  he  laid  him  down 
That  night,  and  slept  beneath  the  stars. 


THE   MARCHING   MORROWS. 

NOW  gird  thee  well  for  courage, 
My  knight  of  twenty  year, 
Against  the  marching  morrows 
That  fill  the  world  with  fear ! 


The  flowers  fade  before  them; 
The  summer  leaves  the  hill ; 
Their  trumpets  range  the  morning, 
And  those  who  hear  grow  still. 

Like  pillagers  of  harvest, 
Their  fame  is  far  abroad, 
As  gray  remorseless  troopers 
That  plunder  and  maraud. 

The  dust  is  on  their  corselets; 
Their  marching  fills  the  world; 
With  conquest  after  conquest 
Their  banners  are  unfurled. 

They  overthrow  the  battles 
Of  every  lord  of  war, 
From  world-dominioned  cities 
Wipe  out  the  names  they  bore. 

48 


Sohrab,  Rameses,  Roland,  "{j^  ,, 

X  1      -KT  1  rr-  Marching 

Ramoth,  Napoleon,  Tyre,  M&rrows. 

And  the  Rome  ward  Huns  of  Attila  — 
Alas,  for  their  desire  ! 

By  April  and  by  autumn 
They  perish  in  their  pride, 
And  still  they  close  and  gather 
Out  of  the  mountain-side. 

The  tanned  and  tameless  children 
Of  the  wild  elder  earth, 
With  stature  of  the  northlights, 
They  have  the  stars  for  girth. 

There  's  not  a  hand  to  stay  them, 
Of  all  the  hearts  that  brave ; 
No  captain  to  undo  them, 
No  cunning  to  off-stave. 

Yet  fear  thou  not !     If  haply 
Thou  be  the  kingly  one. 
They  '11  set  thee  in  their  vanguard 
To  lead  them  round  the  sun. 


THE   WORKSHOP. 

ONCE  in  the  Workshop,  ages  ago. 
The  clay  was  wet  and  the  fire  was  low. 

And  He  who  was  bent  on  fashioning  man 
Moulded  a  shape  from  a  clod. 
And  put  the  loyal  heart  therein ; 
While  another  stood  watching  by. 

49 


In  the        "What 's  that?"  said  Beelzebub. 
'^"^^^'^''-^•"  A  lover,"  said  God. 

And  Beelzebub  frowned,  for  he  knew  that  kind. 

And  then  God  fashioned  a  fellow  shape 
As  lithe  as  a  willow  rod, 
.    And  gave  it  the  merry  roving  eye 
And  the  range  of  the  open  road, 

"  What 's  that?  "  said  Beelzebub. 

"  A  vagrant,"  said  God. 

And  Beelzebub  smiled,  for  he  knew  that  kind.' 

And  last  of  all  God  fashioned  a  form, 
And  gave  it,  what  was  odd, 
The  loyal  heart  and  the  roving  eye ; 
And  he  whistled,  light  of  care. 

•* What's  that?"  said  Beelzebub. 

**  A  poet,"  said  God. 

And  Beelzebub  frowned,  for  he  did  not  know. 


THE   MOTE. 

TWO  shapes  of  august  bearing,  seraph  tall, 
Of  indolent  imperturbable  regard. 
Stood  in  the  Tavern  door  to  drink.     As  the  first 
Lifted  his  glass  to  let  the  warm  light  melt 
In  the  slow  bubbles  of  the  wine,  a  sunbeam, 
Red  and  broad  as  smouldering  autumn,  smote 
Down  through  its  mystery  ;  and  a  single  fleck. 
The  tiniest  sun-mote  settling  through  the  air, 
Fell  on  the  grape-dark  surface  and  there  swam. 

50 


Gently  the  Drinker  with  fastidious  care  The  Mote 

Stretched  hand  to  clear  the  speck  away.     "  No, 

no!"  — 
His  comrade  stayed  his  arm.     "  Why,"  said  the 

first, 
"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ? "   "  Ah,  let  it  float 
A  moment  longer  !  "     And  the  second  smiled. 
"  Do  you  not  know  what  that  is  ?  "    "  No,  indeed." 
'*  A  mere  dust-mote,  a  speck  of  soot,  you  think, 
A  plague-germ  still  unsatisfied.     It  is  not. 
That  is  the  Earth.     See,  I  will  stretch  my  hand 
Between  it  and  the  sun ;  the  passing  shadow 
Gives  its  poor  dwellers  a  glacial  period. 
Let  it  but  stand  an  hour,  it  would  dissolve, 
Intangible  as  the  color  of  the  wine. 
There,  throw  it  away  now !    Lift  it  from  the  sweet 
Enveloping  flood  it  has  enjoyed  so  well ;  " 
(He  smiled  as  only  those  who  live  can  smile) 
"Its  time  is  done,  its  revelry  complete, 
Its  being  accomplished.     Let  us  drink  again." 


IN   THE   HOUSE    OF    IDIEDAILY. 
H,  but  life  went  gayly,  gayly, 
In  the  house  of  Idiedaily  ! 


o 


There  were  always  throats  to  sing 
Down  the  river-banks  with  spring, 

When  the  stir  of  heart's  desire 
Set  the  sapling's  heart  on  fire. 

51 


In  the        Bobolincolns  in  the  meadows, 
^dkdaUy-    Leisure  in  the  purple  shadows, 

Till  the  poppies  without  number 
Bowed  their  heads  in  crimson  slumber. 

And  the  twilight  came  to  cover 
Every  unreluctant  lover. 

Not  a  night  but  some  brown  maiden 
Bettered  all  the  dusk  she  strayed  in, 

While  the  roses  in  her  hair 
Bankrupted  oblivion  there. 

Oh,  but  life  went  gayly,  gayly, 
In  the  house  of  Idiedaily  ! 

But  this  hostelry,  The  Barrow, 
.  With  its  chambers,  bare  and  narrow, 

Mean,  ill-windowed,  damp,  and  wormy, 
Where  the  silence  makes  you  squirmy, 

And  the  guests  are  never  seen  to, 
Is  a  vile  place,  a  mere  lean-to, 

Not  a  traveller  speaks  well  of. 
Even  worse  than  I  heard  tell  of, 


Mouldy,  ramshackle,  and  foul. 

r  a 

52 


What  a  dwelling  for  a  soul ! 


Oh,  but  life  went  gayly.  gayly,  ^-J^^^  ^^ 

In  the  house  of  Idiedailyl  idUdaUy. 

There  the  hearth  was  always  warm, 
From  the  slander  of  the  storm. 

There  your  comrade  was  your  neighbor, 
Living  on  to-morrow's  labor. 

And  the  board  was  always  steaming, 
Though  Sir  Ringlets  might  be  dreaming. 

Not  a  plate  but  scoffed  at  porridge, 
Not  a  cup  but  floated  borage. 

There  were  always  jugs  of  sherry 
Waiting  for  the  makers  merry. 

And  the  dark  Burgundian  wine 
That  would  make  a  fool  divine. 

Oh,  but  life  went  gayly,  gayly, 
In  the  house  of  Idiedaily! 


RESIGNATION. 

WHEN  I  am  only  fit  to  go  to  bed. 
Or  hobble  out  to  sit  within  the  sun. 
Ring  down  the  curtain,  say  the  play  is  done. 
And  the  last  petals  of  the  poppy  shed! 

S3 


^"'^-  I  do  not  want  to  live  when  I  am  old, 
"*  ^"'  I  have  no  use  for  things  I  cannot  love; 
And  when  the  day  that  I  am  talking  of 
(Which  God  forf end ! )  is  come,  it  will  be  cold. 

But  if  there  is  another  place  than  this, 
Where  all  the  men  will  greet  me  as  "  Old  Man,'* 
And  all  the  women  wrap  me  in  a  smile, 
Where  money  is  more  useless  than  a  kiss. 
And  good  wine  is  not  put  beneath  the  ban, 
I  will  go  there  and  stay  a  little  while. 


COMRADES. 

COMRADES,  pour  the  wine  to-night 
For  the  parting  is  with  dawn  1 
Oh,  the  clink  of  cups  together, 
With  the  daylight  coming  on  ! 
Greet  the  morn 
With  a  double  horn, 
When  strong  men  drink  together  ! 

Comrades,  gird  your  swords  to-night. 

For  the  battle  is  with  dawn ! 

Oh,  the  clash  of  shields  together, 

With  the  triumph  coming  on ! 

Greet  the  foe. 

And  lay  him  low. 

When  strong  men  fight  together ! 

Comrades,  watch  the  tides  to-night, 
For  the  sailing  is  with  dawn ! 
Oh,  to  face  the  spray  together. 
With  the  tempest  coming  on ! 

54 


Greet  the  sea  Comrades. 

With  a  shout  of  glee, 

When  strong  men  roam  together ! 

Comrades,  give  a  cheer  to-night, 

For  the  dying  is  with  dawn  ! 

Oh,  to  meet  the  stars  together, 

With  the  silence  coming  on  I 

Greet  the  end 

As  a  friend  a  friend. 

When  strong  men  die  together  I 


THE  END. 


THIS  BOOK  WAS  PRINTED  BY   JOHN 

WILSON  AND  SON,  AT  THE  UNIVERSITY 

PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,    MASSACHUSETTS, 

DURING    MARCH,    I9H 


More  Songs  from  Vagabondia 

By  BLISS   CARMAN  6-  RICHARD    HOVEY 

i6mo,  paper  boards,  with  cover  and  end  paper 
decorations  by  Tom  B.  Meteyard.      ^i.oo. 

The  second  volume  is  no  less  worthy  of  welcome  than  the  first. 
We  find  the  same  ardent  imagination,  the  same  delicacy  and  grace  of 
rhythm  as  before.  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

The  muse  of  these  poems  may  be  a  reckless,  wanton  baggage  .  .  . 
but  her  eyes  are  as  honest  as  the  growth  of  a  tree  or  the  movement  of 
a  deer,  and  she  is  as  clean  and  wholesome  as  a  burgeoning  spring  noon. 
—  Boston  Journal. 

How  long  is  it  since  another  volume  appeared  so  packed  with  high 
spirits  and  good  humor?  Certainly  not  since  the  original  "Songs 
from  Vagabondia  "  came  out.  The  poetry  fairly  bubbles  over, —  even 
over  into  the  inside  of  the  covers,  where  some  verses  are  enshrined  in 
drawings.  It  is  a  book  that  makes  the  reader  young  again.  —  Buffalo 
Express. 

Hail  to  the  poets !  Good  poets !  Real  poets  !  .  .  .  They  are  the 
free,  untrammelled  songs  of  men  who  sing  because  their  hearts  are  full 
of  music  ;  and  they  have  their  own  way  of  singing,  too.  **  Songs  from 
Vagabondia"  ought  to  go  singing  themselves  into  every  library  from 
Denver  to  both  seas,  for  they  are  good  to  know.  —  New  York  Times. 

These  gentlemen  have  something  to  say,  and  they  say  it  in  a  hale 
and  ready  way  that  is  as  convincing  as  it  is  artistic.  One  is  not  met 
at  every  turn  by  some  platitude  laboriously  wrought,  which  the  minor 
poets  nowadays  so  delight  in,  but  a  ring  and  a  cheer  and  a  manner 
neither  obscure  nor  commonplace,  with  just  enough  mystery  to  delight 
and  stimulate  the  imagination  without  overtaxing  it,  —  Washington 
Star. 

The  pulsing  of  warm,  youthful  blood,  the  joy  of  living,  and  comrade- 
ship are  enclosed  between  the  covers  of  "More  Songs  from  Vaga- 
bondia." The  poems  are  full  of  exuberant  vitality,  with  a  fine  and 
energetic  rhythm.  —  The  Argonaut. 

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Last   Songs   from   Vagabondia 

By    BLISS    CARMAN    6-    RICHARD    HOVEY 

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This  third  collection  makes  a  fitting  close  to  the  fresh  and. 
exhilarating  poetry  of  the  two  preceding  volumes  of  the  series. 
It  contains,  in  addition  to  verses  set  aside  for  this  purpose  by 
both  authors  prior  to  Mr.  Hovey's  death,  certain  later  poems 
by  Mr.  Carman,  reminiscent  of  his  friend  and  fellow-vagabond. 

*'  The  sight  of  '  Last  Songs  from  Vagabondia '  must  raise  a 
pang  in  many  breasts,  a  remembrance  of  two  best  of  comrades 
sundered.  They  were  mad  carols,  those  early  Vagabondian 
lays,  with  here  and  there  a  song  more  seriously  tuned,  but 
beyond  their  joyous  ebullition  were  beauty  of  no  uncertain 
quality,  the  riches  of  Vagabondia  —  love  and  youth  and  com- 
radeship—  and  the  glamour  of  the  great  world  unexplored. 
All  those  qualities  are  embodied  in  these  *  Last  Songs,'  nor  is 
the  joy  in  living  absent,  only  softened  to  a  soberer  tone.  The 
themes  vary  little,  the  joys  of  the  road  are  still  undimmed, 
there  is  ever  closer  cleaving  of  comrade  to  comrade,  and  there 
is  the  old  buckling  on  of  bravery  against  the  battle ;  under- 
neath all  this  a  note  hitherto  unheard  in  Vagabondia,  a  sense  of 
the  inescapable  loneliness  of  every  soul.  Both  Mr.  Carman 
and  Mr.  Hovey  have  perfect  command  of  the  lyric  form,  both 
the  power  to  imprison  in  richly  colored  verse  a  complete 
expression  of  the  wander-spirit."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  Worthy  to  take  their  place  alongside  their  charming  and 
inspiriting  predecessors."  —  Boston  yournal. 

"  One  finds  in  this  volume  the  breadth  of  view,  the  spon- 
taneous joy,  the  unexpected  outlook,  and  the  felicity  of 
touch  which  betray  the  true  poet."  —  The  Outlook. 

"  The  charm  of  the  verses,  especially  of  the  lyrics,  is  as  great  in 
this  as  in  the  two  previous  volumes." —  New  Orleans  Picayune. 

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By         BLISS         CARMAN 

A   NEW  EDITION  OF 

LOW   TIDE   ON    GRAND-PRE. 
A  Book  of  Lyrics. 

Together  with 

BALLADS   OF   LOST   HAVEN. 

A  Book  of  the  Sea. 

Strathmore  Japan  Boards,  Price  net  $1.50,  by  post  $1.60 

Mr.  Carman's  two  earliest  books  contain  much  of  the 
work  which  gained  him  his  most  appreciative  recognition 
from  the  critics,  and  many  of  these  poems  are  worthy 
to  endure  with  the  best  poetry  of  his  generation.  The 
original  editions  having  gone  out  of  print,  the  public 
will  welcome  this  new  edition  which  presents  in  a  single 
volume  all  of  the  contents  of  these  two  books,  together 
with  a  fine  portrait  of  the  author. 

Mr.  Carman  is  a  poet  in  every  fibre  of  his  mortal  frame,  with  a 
Keats-like  sensitiveness  to  beauty.  —  Boston  Transcript. 

There  is  an  unextinguishable  idealism  in  all  his  work.  The  loveli- 
ness of  it  is  not  coarsely  appealing,  there  is  no  blatant  drawing  of 
attention;  but  the  elements  of  high  poetry  are  always  there.  .  .  .  No 
lovelier,  truer,  more  distinctive  verse  is  being  written  in  our  day  than 
that  of  this  Canadian  singer.  —  Richard  Burton  in  The  Saturday 

Ev 671171  g  Post. 

"  Ballads  of  Lost  Haven  "  is  a  hundred  pages  of  salt  sea  without  a 
trace  of  Kipling,  and  yet  having  a  sea-flavor  as  unmistakable  as  his, 
and  with  a  finer  touch,  — with  less  of  repetition,  less  of  mere  technical- 
ity, and  a  more  varied  human  interest.  —  The  Natio7i, 

Beyond  all  other  American  poets  whom  we  recall  he  has  been  most 
inspired  to  sing  of  the  sea,  not  as  Byron  was,  in  a  vaguely  sublime 
fashion  by  the  Mediterranean,  nor,  as  Barry  Cornwall  was,  by  a  lyrical 
love  of  "The  sea,  the  sea,  the  open  sea"  (upon  which  he  never  had 
marine  hardihood  enough  to  trust  himself),  but  by  the  sight  and  sound 
of  waves  —  the  sea  from  the  shore.  It  furnishes  him  with  a  diction 
of  its  own,  with  words  which  are  things,  with  vital  phrases,  and  with 
a  sense  of  movement  and  color.  —  TJie  Mail  a7id  Express. 

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Of  the  seven  poems  making  up  the  collection,  five  directly  reflect  the 
warm,  many-colored  experiences  of  the  Bahamas.  The  two  other 
pieces,  "  December  in  Scituate"  and  "  Winter  at  Tortoise  Shell,"  de- 
pict in  sharp  contrast,  yet  with  equal  charm,  New  England  winter 
scenes  indoors  and  out.  They  show  that  this  poet's  remarkable  gift 
for  nature-description  is  as  much  in  evidence  when  dealing  with  win- 
ter's monochromes  as  when  moved  by  all  the  vibrancy  and  bloom  of 
the  full  summer  tide.  —  Richard  Burton,  in  Saturday  Evening 
Post. 

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which,  separately  published  some  years  ago,  aroused  the  admi- 
ration of  the  critics. 
As  a  maker  of  ballads,  imaginative  and  full  of  haunting  memory,  Mr. 
Carman  is  easily  the  master  among  his  contemporaries.  —  The  Critic. 


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WITH  THE   ORI  - 
LIFE  MY  MISTR  - 
KNOWLEDGE  "SA- 
BERS. 
'5HALL  BE  YOURS- 

I 

LIKE  A  POMECR  — 

'DRINK  ME  "SAID  — 

HERS. 

AND  I  ^RA^fK  W  - 
WHERE  MYDUST  — 


ENT  IN  HER  EYES, 
ESS  LURED  ME  ON. 
ID  THAT  LOOK  OF 

l^HEN  ALL  IS  DONE? 

ANATE  IN  HALVES. 
THAT  MOUTH  OF 


HO  NOW  AM  HERE 
WITH  DUST  CONFERS. 


